


Not Quite Perfect

by Buckysaur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amused Sam, Bunker Fluff, Caring Dean, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester is Protective of Castiel, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Team Free Will, Dorks in Love, First Kiss, First kisses?, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Human Castiel, Human Castiel in the Bunker, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Mother Hen Dean, Protective Dean, Romantic Fluff, Sam Ships It, Sassy Sam, Sick Castiel, Sickfic, Worried Dean, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckysaur/pseuds/Buckysaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is very worried when a newly human Cas comes down with a cold, and does his very best to take care of him. Sam is mostly just amused by his brother's mother hen antics.</p><p>(Previously titled 'Everything Returns to You')</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Sickfic, prompted by the lovely Chiyume! Honey, you are my light in this supernatural darkness, and without your musings I would never get a thing done ♥

The sound of Dean’s boots echoes through the bunker. It’s determined — purposeful. No one hearing it would have any doubt that Dean is on a mission.

“Sam? Sammy!” he says briskly as he steps into the library.

Sam looks up from the Ancient Greek text he’d been translating. His eyes widen just a fraction when they find his brother. “Dean? What’s wrong?”

“I need you to run an errand for me, it’s an emergency,” Dean says, stepping up to the table and resting onto it with one hand, which is curled into a fist.

“Alright, what do you need?” Sam asks, carefully putting his work-in-progress translation between the pages of the manuscript before closing it and laying it aside.

“I need cough drops, VapoRub,” Dean lists, actually counting each item on his fingers. “Chamomile tea, and I mean _whole leaf_ , Sam, none of those bullshit over-processed tea bags,” (Sam’s eyebrows rise to his hairline,) “a tissue box, a whole chicken, fresh vegetables for soup—”

“Dean,” Sam starts, amusement as clear in his voice as it is on his face. “Are you trying to tell me the ‘big emergency’ is that you have a _cold_?”

Dean shoots him a dark scowl. “ _Cas_ has a cold,” he says testily, visibly not appreciating Sam’s humorous take on the situation.

Sam can’t keep the twinkle of mirth that statement brings forth in him out of his eyes, and Dean playfully (but still quite forcefully) smacks the back of his head.

“It’s not funny, you dick! He’s never been sick before, he’s feverish and scared and confused,” Dean reprimands him. “The last time he felt weak like this—” Dean takes a controlled breath, and his next words are harsh and clipped. “His grace was burning up inside of him.”

Thankfully for Dean’s sanity, the reminder is enough to make Sam sober up quickly. He nods. “Okay, so, an arsenal for germ hunting?” he says as he stands up from his chair, the words a peace offering. “I’ll get some organic honey for his tea. That’ll help, and maybe even cheer him up.”

Dean doesn’t quite smile, but there is something close to gratitude in his eyes. “Alright. Here.” He tosses the keys to the Impala over the table and, not for the first time, Sam thanks his quick reflexes for helping him avoid being hit in the face with them (something Dean seems vaguely disappointed about).

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself while Sam gathers his jacket, wallet, gun and canvas grocery bag (“It’s called recycling, Dean, it’s our responsibility to save the planet.” “I’d ‘a’ thought we’d’ve built up enough credit to use plastic grocery bags once in awhile.” “Go fuss over your boyfriend.” “I do _not—_! He’s not my—!” “ _Go_ , Dean.”) and still doesn’t know what to do with himself when he intermittently paces around Cas’ bedroom, sits by the side of his bed squeezing the man’s hand so hard it’s probably painful, and dabs Cas’ forehead with a cool cloth from the tub of ice water on the floor.

He feels restless, helpless. He knows it’s just a cold, but the slight fever has made Cas close to delirious, and Dean can see that he is _scared_.

The worst thing, perhaps, is that there’s nothing he can do about it. He can’t salt the room, he can’t burn the corpse, he can’t exorcise or stab or decapitate some bastard. He can’t even keep his own distress in check enough to not freak Cas out by proximity.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice is thick, the N-sound more like a B than anything. The man breaks out in coughs, his body — too frail, too thin, Cas hasn’t eaten properly in over 24 hours now, and Dean fucking hates seeing him like this — jerking violently on top of the mattress.

“Sssh, Cas, don’t talk,” Dean says miserably, wiping a thin layer of clammy sweat off Cas’ forehead with soft cotton. He squeezes Cas’ shoulder gently before tossing the cloth back into the water to cool. “Sammy’s gettin’ you somethin’ for your throat, and I’m gonna make you chicken soup when he comes back,” he promises gently.

Cas smiles blearily, and then scrunches his eyes shut. “M’ head hurts,” he mumbles, and Dean’s heart (the existence of which he will forever deny) shatters in approximately two million pieces. He sits back against the headboard and pulls Cas’ upper body into his lap before wrapping his arms tightly around him. He presses a quiet kiss into Cas’ hair.

“I know it does, I’m sorry. I can’t give you any more painkillers.”

Cas arms curl around his waist and Dean floods with heat at the contact — not just because Cas’ body is burning up, but also because it’s _Cas_ , clinging to him like a lifeline.

“I di’n’ ‘spect it to be this bad,” Cas mumbles into the softness of Dean’s stomach. “How do ‘umans stan’ this?”

Dean schools his fond smile into a serious expression of heterosexuality and manliness. Then presses another kiss into Cas’ hair, essentially rendering the previous effort moot. “We just muddle through,” he says, honestly. “We’re a bunch of tough sons of bitches, Cas. You, too.”

Cas makes a grumbling noise that’s somewhere between pleased and disgruntled, and Dean runs his fingers through Cas’ hair until the man quiets down again. After a couple of minutes, Cas starts snoring — the wet, congested kind of snores of someone who’s in serious need of flu medicine, and trying to escape the unpleasant sensation of every single muscle in their body aching with sickness.

Dean stays seated where he is, combing his fingers through Cas’ hair until Sam returns with supplies.

 

* * *

 

To the great relief of everyone involved, Cas’ newly developed immune system — to put it in Dean’s words — _kicks ass_. It’s a perfect three days until he’s out of bed, and only five until he stops sniffling every other minute. (Dean isn’t as pleased with this as he’d expected; it had been kind of cute.)

After just a short week, they are all sitting in Sam’s bedroom; three grown men squished on the too-narrow bed — a perfect excuse for Dean to figure out how many limbs he can possibly tangle with Cas’ while still staying in a comfortable Game of Thrones-watching position.

They laugh, Sam cries, Dean throws popcorn at the television; Cas glares at him until he gets up to clean the grease off — it’s perfect. Dean is the happiest he’s been in a long time.

Then he sneezes. And coughs. Grumbles and curses and glares right back at Cas.

“Now _I’m_ sick,” he complains. “I bet you infected me.” He can already feel the headache coming on, and isn’t that just _great?_

Cas gets up and cups Dean’s face, a soft smile playing around his lips. “Then you better get in bed, and Sam can teach me how to make chicken soup.”

Dean stares down at him, stunned, and then closes his eyes, even more stunned, when Cas presses their lips together. He can hear his brother make cooing noises from the bed, which he pointedly chooses to ignore.

Maybe it’s not quite perfect, but it’s good enough for him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me life! Save a Yentl, leave your thoughts ♥


End file.
